We are all tainted with paint that is ours.

It is held with us at all of our lows.

When we leave, it isn't just written in the stars;

Its embossed in solemn glares an blatant blows,

Then the time comes and you meet a person: yours.

Talking to them paints you with their coloring.

All of a sudden nothing is a chore,

Puzzle and piece fit, now you're recovering.

But action leads to shock and paint is thinned.

Suddenly you have yourself, no one else,

But the remnants still stay, still pinned,

So you're left to sit, stained with welts.

Now you're left to find another,

With your own and someone else's color.